Title: WIRED FOR WALL STREET
Genre: Women's Fiction
Word Count: 100,000
My Main Character's Most Fearsome Obstacle:
Adelaide Taggart’s terrified of the spotlight. That’s a big problem because she was born into a family of Mummers who live and die to strut down Broad Street on New Year’s – in the spotlight. In order to avoid exile from South Philly, every January 1st, she downs whiskey for courage, steps into a sequined costume that would make Mardi Gras masters jealous and tries to parade like she means it. And every year, while her family and friends party it up, Adelaide prays to the glitter gods that she won’t puke at the judges stand.
South Philly: Home to cheesesteaks, big hair, and Adelaide Taggart – a feisty electrician who’s known as the best cat burglar in town. Trouble is her small-time gig won’t cover her big-time family medical bills. Adelaide needs cash fast and so she bluffs her way into a job at the richest investment bank in Philadelphia. After all, like Willie Sutton said, that’s where the money is.
When Adelaide lands her first deal with a Swiss conglomerate she thinks she’s made it – until she discovers the company in Geneva is a front. Even worse, her boss is willing to pay her $4 million to look the other way. Before Adelaide even decides if she’ll take it or leave it, the FBI comes knocking on her door.
Desperate for a way out, and stuck in Switzerland, Adelaide discovers the evidence she needs to clear her name is sitting in a vault as secure as Fort Knox and she can’t break in on her own. Enter Rusty Lang, Adelaide’s old partner. If any team can hack a world-class security perimeter, it’s them. As electricians they’ve built half a dozen but getting caught in Geneva means landing six feet under. Fear has both their heads spinning. Add in the sparks between them and neither one can think straight. And while no self respecting woman from South Philly would ever turn herself in, being behind bars beats an early grave and it’s time to weigh her options.
First 250 Words:
To pull this off, I needed to go big and make the show convincing. I rummaged through my briefcase pretending to search for ID. I clanged a lipstick and pen together, rifled copies of my resume and tried to channel my panic to look like frustration. Business school identification was a request I wasn’t prepared to dodge. My hands shook and caught the price tag I’d left hidden. The briefcase had to go back if I didn’t get the job, and that tag dangled like an omen I didn’t need telling me I was flailing. “Damn it.”
“Ms. Taggart, I don’t have all day,” the receptionist poked.
A Fortman Brothers Bank badge identified her as Jeanette Ryan. Her obsidian hair twisted into a bun that wrenched up her forehead. My ankles wobbled. Jeanette’s eyes narrowed. Could she smell the lies? Either way, I wouldn’t back down. For the first time I stood in the Rittenhouse Suite, in Philadelphia’s finest hotel, without a tool box. I had to make it past the gatekeeper.
I collapsed my chest with a sigh. “I must have left it at home?”
Jeanette raked her eyes over me, took inventory. My suit had a polyester sheen. It was too small – borrowed. I didn’t have jewelry and I folded my fingertips, hoping she wouldn’t notice my stained nails. Not even polish could cover all that grease.
A grandfather clock behind the desk ticked, tocked. The hour hand slid to the five, and bells too loud for the room startled me.